


give me a minute to hold my girl

by rutherbird



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Cahir's POV, F/M, I'm terrible at tagging, Light Angst, Retrospective
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-09
Updated: 2020-10-09
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:20:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26915785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rutherbird/pseuds/rutherbird
Summary: “Ask me to stay.” Her voice was soft-spoken, containing no hint of the Ciri he loved dearly. None of the wolf’s bite that had him within its jaws.“Stay.” He tilted his head up and peppered a kiss beneath her chin, “Stay,” A kiss to her jaw, “Stay with me.”
Relationships: Cahir Mawr Dyffryn aep Ceallach/Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon
Comments: 6
Kudos: 18





	give me a minute to hold my girl

**Author's Note:**

> I couldn't tell you what this piece is myself, to be honest. Just vibe with it and trust me!

It was never boring, never exhausting with her. 

How could it be? 

Despite how it was all etched into the furthest corners of his memories, he never got tired, never wanted another to wake up beside her. 

He wouldn’t change it. Or change her. 

The way the thin rays of sunlight caught the wisps of her ashen hair as it soaked through tavern windows, or how it illuminated her fully when they had no choice but to sleep under the sky. 

It was always a sight to behold. 

Her legs always used his own to stretch out the dull aches of sleep and she didn’t care if the act woke him. When it did, she would smile proudly despite her eyes showing the tiredness that still lingered. 

“You’re a menace,” He would declare, a laugh hiding in the lilt of his words. 

“Would you have me any other way?” She often replied, knowing full well what he would say to her easily answered question. 

“Never, Ciri.” He routinely promised and hoped she would believe. Deft fingers moved the soft wisps of hair from her eyes and she smiled sleepily, as she always did before they both reached out to claim each other’s lips. 

Cahir would never take another morning for granted again. He had grown somewhat accustomed to them in Toussaint but nothing, not even Beauclair’s breakfast, could compare to Ciri fitting perfectly in his arms.  
  
On rare occasions, or so he liked to tell himself, he would wake up in her embrace instead. If an embrace could be defined as her teeth nipping at his neck, fingers tracing his jawline, and tempting desire to shoot through his veins.  
  
She was a wicked thing who answered to his every whim.  
  
Even in _those_ kinds of dreams, he had never quite imagined being like this.   
  
Never imagined her lips everywhere, finding places he had also never dreamed of, bringing rise to pleasure he never knew was quite possible.  
  
And when she would smirk up at him afterward, he felt he could have died a happy man.  
  
It was worse when they would pay a visit to Corvo Bianco, often at Yule. Ciri was rather good at ignoring Geralt’s clear displeasure and led him up to the spare room each night, with a bed big enough for them to fit in properly if they got the angle right. It wasn’t a private room, more of a balcony high up in the roof of the estate's house.  
  
Ciri never allowed the matter of Geralt and Yennefer sleeping in a room below them to stop her.  
  
“The room has a perfectly good door.” She argued, that playful smirk he adored so much present on her lips.  
  
“Ciri,” He chuckled, throwing an arm across his eyes and most of his face so she would not see his laugh, “what of Geralt’s impeccable hearing?”  
  
He felt her shrug beside him before she turned on her side, propped up with her elbow.  
  
“He’s getting old.” She reasoned, tucking a few wisps of hair behind his ear so gently it made his heart give a foolish squeeze.  
  
“So am I.”  
  
“Oh? I did notice those few grey hairs at your temple but didn’t want to be the first to say…” Ciri teased, a wide grin spreading on her face as he moved his arm to squint at her.  
  
“Tormenting me now, are you?” He quipped as if his slightly older age wasn’t the source of most of their gentle banter. He believed that she got her teasing from Yennefer - he had seen her and Geralt with their silly but endearing word games. 

“And you’re not doing that to me, hm?” Ciri laughed, carefree and no doubt making a statement to Geralt’s hearing. “Grumpy Nilfgaardian.”  
  
“Hey, you know I do--”  
  
His defense was too late as her hands found their way to his ribs and dug in, tickling him so mercilessly he could do nothing but squirm.  
  
“I yield!” Ciri spluttered out after a short while, once he had gotten the upper hand and almost thrown them out of the small bed at least twice.  
  
Cahir chuckled to himself as she shuffled her way up to rest her head back on the pillows, one of his hands resting against her hip whilst the other ran gently up and down her thigh, beneath the thin fabric she wore.  
  
Marlene had gifted her a linen dress, embroidered with simple flowers that Ciri had refused to take off since she had been gifted it earlier in the evening.  
  
Her hand found its way to his face and gently cupped his cheek, her thumb drawing the same lines and curves as his hand. “What are you thinking?” She asked, quietly.  
  
“Everything, all at once.” Cahir pressed a fleeting to kiss to her forehead, “Most of all, about how much I love you.”  
  
The look that crossed her features made his chest hurt.  
  
“I adore you.” She replied, “I know I’m not the best at--”  
  
He gently shushed her with a kiss that she willingly accepted.  
  
“I know,” Cahir whispered as they parted. He could spend hours like this, above her, taking in every freckle, every laughter line, and every mischievous glint in her eyes.  
  
Great Sun, how he adored her.  
  
”You’re fine with Geralt hearing us laugh like madmen but not hearing--”  
  
“Stop, just stop.” Cahir laughed before he pressed a kiss to her neck, admiring how he could feel the steady rhythm of her heart as he lingered.  
  
“Truth be told,” Ciri began, cheekiness present in every firm end of her words, “I’ve never met a man that is as loud as you are when--”  
  
“Ciri, by all the Gods…”  
  
This time, Ciri laughed; loud, carefree and every bit endearing as herself.  
  
He worked his kisses further down her frame, silently thanking whichever Gods were listening for allowing him her trust and her love.  
  
He never got tired of listening to her come undone first either, with his head between her thighs, her fingers gripping his hair something fierce and her back arched towards the heavens.

Often, he would trail his hand up and lightly clamp it over her mouth, Geralt’s wrath always playing at the corner of his mind. He’d be rewarded with the light scrape of her teeth against his skin, or on some occasions, a fleeting kiss against the scar of her creation that lay rough on his palm. His resolve usually crumbled after that, Geralt forgotten about and their mutual adoration allowed to exist freely in the air.  
  
They fit together perfectly and he never wanted it to end, never wanted to leave her arms, and could never imagine himself with anyone else.  
  
How could he? After all these years of devotion?  
  
She lay deep in his veins, in the very essence of his being.  
  
The love he cherished so deeply only grew when he saw her with children. It made him warm but also left something sickly lingering in the pit of his stomach.  
  
Gretka was a lovely girl and he adored her almost as much as Ciri did.  
  
Toussaint was warm enough to sit outside with a decently tailored cloak, even in the middle of its winter.  
  
He and Ciri always sat atop the hill overlooking Corvo Bianco with Gretka to keep her out of Yennefer and Geralt’s hair for a few hours, homemade pastries and jams from Marlene, blanket on the grass as the sun was still high in the sky.  
  
Ciri and Gretka would play their silly card game he didn’t understand despite Ciri’s patience at teaching him whilst he would lay, head in Ciri’s lap so she would occasionally breeze her fingers through his hair as he looked up to the sky, imaging all what could be and what would never be. 

The Dyffryn family was quite large, he had grown up with sisters and brothers running around in all their youthful chaos. Children had always been an end goal for him; he had often imagined returning home from the Northern War, taking a beautiful wife and healing his wounds, both mental and physical, with children that he had pictured so clearly in his mind, running beneath his feet. 

They would have hair as dark as his, eyes the same as his own too. A mother, he could never imagine, until now. The children he had imagined in his careless dreams, before the horrors of war, now took a different form. They still had his hair but their eyes were now the colour of emeralds, eyes he could recognise even in death or whatever lay beyond.  
  
“Cahir?” Gretka pulled him from his thoughts, as she always did.  
  
“What is it?”  
  
“Think you could play hopscotch with me?”  
  
“Of course.” He answered, taking a quick look up at Ciri who was still looking off to the horizon, “Did you make it already?”  
  
Gretka polished off the pastry she had been picking at for the past fifteen minutes, “Yes, yesterday!”  
  
Ciri snorted to herself.  
  
“Go on then, I’ll meet you there in a minute.”  
  
She didn’t need any further instruction and instead, jumped up as happy as ever and thought it proper to wave at Ciri before she disappeared down the hill. 

Gently, Cahir took Ciri’s hand in his and interlaced their fingers as he always did before pressing a fleeting kiss to her knuckles.

“What’s on your mind?”

“Everything.” She murmured, eyes still focused on a particular spot of the afternoon sky. 

“Do you want to talk?” He offered after what felt like hours. Still, after all the time they had spent together, in the never-ending circle of this, he always feared what came next.

“Later.” Her vague reassurance never worked anymore. “Gretka is waiting for you.” 

Later.

How he dreaded later. 

That never changed, either.

She made her presence scarce for the remainder of the day. He assumed she would be with Geralt. Usually, when it was like this, they would take a contract out together, much to Yennefer’s annoyance.

“They’ll be back soon.” He would sometimes tell the sorceress as if she didn’t know that herself. 

“I know.” Her fingers gently twisted the obsidian star that hung from her neck, a trait he had observed quite a bit of late. Cahir was always under the impression that sorceresses didn’t fret, didn’t care about anyone but themselves - Yennefer soon showed him that it was not the case. “I worry about what state they will be back in.” 

“As do I,” Cahir replied, still as hesitant to address her as he had been the moment he first met her, after Stygga.

How he wished he could forget that. How they all wished it.   
  
Ciri didn’t return until later. Much later.   
  
The stupid small bed creaks as she clambers in and he feels her breath, warm and rapid at the base of his neck. Her hand finds the curve of his shoulder and grips gently, beckoning him to face her.  
  
He does as she asks, as he always does. A follower to her every desire, whim, and order.  
  
“Contract all done?”  
  
“Yes.” She answered curtly, brushing wisps of hair from his forehead as he turned to face her, bedsheets still drawn up to his chin. A sigh of regret passes her lips before she speaks again, “It was rather simple.”  
  
“Tell me.”  
  
Ciri snorted lightly, “If I tell you all the details, you’ll just fall asleep.”  
  
“Your Witchering does interest me, Ciri.”  
  
“I know.” For a change, she pressed a kiss to his forehead. “I want to speak of something else.”  
  
The moment he always dreaded the most. When she would leave.  
  
“What is it?” He managed to blurt out despite the dryness of his lips and the taste of copper on his tongue. 

“A contract in Kovir. For what sounds something like a Hym.” He notices how her eyes light up when she speaks of doing the thing she loves above all.  
  
“And how long will you go for?” Cahir asked quietly, daring not to speak in anything but hushed tones. If he spoke louder, fear would grab him. Fear and loneliness.  
  
“A few months, give or take.”  
  
“On your own?”  
  
“Cahir…”  
  
“I meant, is Geralt going with you? I know you won’t want me to follow.”   
  
“I’ll go it alone,” Ciri mentioned defiantly, in that tone he usually adored her for. “Cahir, I can’t be what you want me to be.”  
  
His throat tightened and restricted what he wanted to say. He should be used to it by now.  
  
“I want you.” Cahir managed to choke out, desperation already clinging to his every word, “All I have ever wanted was you.”  
  
Her palm rested on his cheek, barely-there like she would be once the morning light rose.  
  
“And what about children? A family?”  
  
“I know the risks involved.” He protested.  
  
“And I know you. I see the way you are with Gretka and how you looked at Brianna’s children when we visited Darn Dyffra in summer.”  
  
He couldn’t deny what she said. Ciri always had him around her littlest finger in more ways than one. Just as he knew her, she knew him like nobody else ever did. Not even his own family, not Geralt and not Milva.  
  
“If it’s not what you want, it’s not what I want either. I want _you_ to be happy. Above everything, Ciri. That’s all I have ever wanted.” A sigh left his lips, now considerably drier than earlier, “How many times must we repeat this?”  
  
“You’re right.” She admitted after some silent moments of thought, “Still, I must go.” 

Cahir edged closer to her as she opened her arms, allowing him to rest his head on her chest. Her hand ran up and down his back, soothing and beckoning him into a slumber. He wouldn’t fall prey to it.  
  
“I’m suffocating,” Ciri said after some time spent in silent thought.  
  
“I know.”  
  
“And you won’t stop me? Force me to stay here, in your arms?” Her breath was hot against his forehead, his eyes fluttering shut as he stayed in her warmth for as long as she would let him.  
  
“I would never force anything on you.” Cahir declared with a sense of hope as he felt her shoulders relax, “None of us would.”  
  
The next silence seemed to last a lifetime.  
  
“Ask me to stay.” Her voice was soft-spoken, containing no hint of the Ciri he loved dearly. None of the wolf’s bite that had him within its jaws.  
  
“Stay.” He tilted his head up and peppered a kiss beneath her chin, “Stay,” A kiss to her jaw, “Stay with me.”  
  
The spot next to him was always cold in the morning. No matter how many times it happened, how often they would have the conversation, or how many times she would yearn for a break, he knew she would return when she was ready. The embers of that hope kept him warm during the cold, lonely nights.  
  
Cahir left for Novigrad only a few days after Ciri. Geralt made it clear he was always welcome but the vineyard was not the same when he couldn’t hear bubbling laughter from each crevice and it didn’t have the same amount of life in it.  
  
“How will she find you?” Geralt would always ask as if he didn’t know the answer by now.  
  
“We have our spots,” Cahir assured him as the Witcher grabbed his shoulders and drew him into one of those fierce hugs. Cahir had grown to love them over the years.  
  
Neither of the men would admit it.  
  
The hustle and bustle of Novigrad, in Cahir’s opinion, _did_ get boring.  
  
But the best room in The Chameleon? Not boring in the slightest.  
  
The bed, however, was too large. Too empty without Ciri beside him.  
  
Most of his days were spent with Zoltan, who took over where Ciri and Gretka left off in trying to teach him how to play cards.  
  
Dandelion often piped in unnecessarily. Cahir didn’t mind so much.  
  
Priscilla was a delight, Cahir had found out the first time he and Ciri stayed. Though, she often stated she was going to write a ballad for her and Dandelion to perform about his and Ciri’s life.  
  
That, he most certainly, did not like.  
  
Most nights, he crashed into the bed.  
  
This night was no different and the soft sheets welcomed him home. He was thinking of moving on, perhaps he would head over to Dilligen.  
  
“I’ll sleep on it.” He talked to himself, mid-yawn as he settled his head onto the pillows and sleep consumed him, for the moment.  
  
Cahir wasn't sure how long he’s been asleep or if he had at all when the room grows cold. He didn’t have a magical bone in his body but he knew enough to recognise her signature, her trace, her essence.  
  
The covers drew back as the bed dipped and her cold arm draped around his waist, as it always did when she returned home. Home to him.  
  
Ciri’s lips pressed against his shoulder, wisps of her hair tickling behind his ear as he continued to drift between being awake and asleep.  
  
Her lips moved against his thin shirt, so thin he could feel the sweet nothings she whispered into his skin in the moonlight.  
  
She whispered promises and declarations she was too afraid to utter often aloud.  
  
But he knew them. He knew them by heart. They kept him going, the very thought of them kept his heart beating foolishly after Stygga when so much blood covered them all.  
  
And despite this routine, the one they shared of being with one another and parting, only to come back together more fiercely devoted, he never got tired of having those sweet nothings and love whispered against his skin in the dark.  
  
“One day, I’ll give you the world.” Ciri whispered against his ear before she pressed the lightest of kisses to his cheek, “We’ll figure it out together. One day, I’ll tell the whole world from humans to drowners, how much you mean to me.”  
  
Until then, Cahir was happy to love her enough for both of them. 


End file.
